I don’t release his hand. “You won’t.”
“You’re not untouchable.”
I look at his hand and then back at his face. “Neither are you.”
His nostrils flare, and his expression contorts into one of malice. “A man doesn’t make empty threats.”
I release his hand and roll my shoulders. “Who said anything about them being empty?”
“You have more of your mother in you than I realized.” Jack turns to the compartment in the center and pulls out a decanter. He pours himself a generous amount of amber liquid and glances out the window. His gun remains in his lap and is pointed at me.
I stare at the shadows and lines of his face, and a pang of longing hits me.
Suddenly, I’m a little boy hiding in the hallway and listening to my parents fight. When I blink, I’m nine years old again, and I’m sitting at the top of the stairs, my feet dangling from the banister. My parents are standing opposite each other in the foyer. My mom’s eyes are red-rimmed, and her voice is thick with emotion.
My father’s face is silhouetted in darkness, and I remember how cold and emotionless his voice was. That night, as I sat there, holding my breath while I watched them, my mother pleaded for her family as tears streamed down her face. I blink again, but this time, I see my father’s impassive face reminding her of what she signed up for.
Though he had softened a bit and done his best to keep her away from the more dangerous aspects of his life, my father had never lied to her.
She had always known, or at least suspected, the kind of man she married, the one she had joined her life to, and no amount of love and wishful thinking would change that.
My mom probably thought she would be enough to save him.
The wrought-iron gates shudder open, welcoming us to the sprawling Mason estate, and I push away the memory. While having London around has made me think more about mymother and the sacrifices she made, I also don’t like that it brings up the feelings I’ve kept hidden under lock and key.
I keep replaying the promise I made myself as a lonely but determined nine-year-old.
One who told himself he wouldn’t put a woman through what my mother went through.
I had grown up believing love was a weakness, a tool to be used against you, and something that crippled your defenses.
But as the car pulls to a stop outside the estate, and I catch a glimpse of London’s outline through the upstairs curtain, I realize how wrong I was. When London comes downstairs to greet me, stopping at the last step and glancing uncertainly at my father, I take her into my arms.
Her familiar, comforting smell, like soap and freesia, washes over me.
I made that promise long before I knew London, when the thought of her was easy to dismiss as unrealistic.
Now that I have her in my arms and my life, I know I can’t let her go.
If I’ve doomed us both by not being able to do the right thing, then so be it.
Chapter Four
London
I run my finger over the small, angry welt on his brow and frown. “I don’t understand why he hit you.”
Mason shrugs. “Because he can.”
I exhale and reach for the first-aid kit next to me. Slowly, I dip a piece of cotton in some disinfectant. I hold my breath and press it against his wound, but Mason doesn’t react.
Knowing he’s surrounded by ruthless and cunning enemies is one thing.
Seeing how volatile his father is leaves a bad taste in my mouth and an ache in my chest.
I was up half the night tossing and turning as Mason slept soundly next to me.
How can he be okay with having a father like that?
